Ladies, Feel Free To Disagree, But...

I have the best husband in the world. He made me this in Photoshop last night.

He gave me a fish one other time, too. It was a halibut and I found it inside my mailbox at Biola. I almost threw it away, but was told by some of his pals that there was a secret message for those who dared to go inside the fish's mouth. So I did, and ta-da! A scroll appeared: "Want to go out, just for the halibut?"

Defying Troutness and Other Weekend Activities

Russell and I bucked our respective troutness and headed out to see the movie Transamerica last night. This is not as defying a move as it might seem, since we first started talking about going on a Friday night in January. So it's taken almost a month, maybe longer, to actually get us out of the house and to Laemmle to see the movie.

I'd wanted to see this movie ever since I first heard about it, firstly, because I adore Felicity Huffman as an actress, and secondly, because it's a road movie. I love the tradition of the road movie. It feels distinctly America, a cultural legacy born of the Kerouac crew and handed down, in different forms, until it arrived on the screen in the shape of a banana colored station wagon, driven by a pre-op male-to-female transsexual named Bree.

We were nervous about our troutness - especially at a late movie - but our nerves were for naught. The movie was a pleasure, the best, both of us concurred, that we'd seen this year. Funny, disarming, challenging, but best of all, excellently written. Much better than our Brokeback Mountain experience, in which the theater was a sweat-inducing temperature and all L.A. hipsters out to see the buzz movie of the year laughed uncomfortably when the lead males even looked at each other. And there's something nonvisual about Proulx's story that didn't translate well to the screen. In Transamerica, the woman sitting next to Russ, probably a mom herself, was so involved with the story, she kept clenching her fists and whispering, "You gotta tell him," over and over.

Other weekend activities include:
The farmer's market (for lots of leeks and strawberries, not to be eaten together)
Any one of a number of music stores (because I got a surprise paycheck, Russ and I each are buying one CD)
Target
(The dreaded) Puppy Class
Thesis Writing
Struggling through at least half of Under the Volcano (no easy task)

But first, a good latte.

Variations on a Theme

Just yesterday, I realized that I'd had both Broken Flowers and Born Into Brothels for over a month without even opening the Netflix envelope. I fear I've lost my ability to sit through any narrative longer than 45 minutes, including commercials. So I sent both movies back and will be receiving Reno 911 in two to three days. Sweet episodic relief.

When I told Kristan this, she groaned, informing me that Broken Flowers was an amazing movie and she couldn't believe that I sent it back without watching. But can I help it if I'm a trout? Flash something shiny in front of my eyes, and I totally fall for it, as long as its shinyness does not exceed 45 minutes (including commercials). Offer something nourishing, intelligent, and artistic, and I'll most likely never open the envelope.

Comparisons to trouts lead me to thoughts about Susan Sarandon. How, you ask? I once read this article where the writer quipped, "Susan Sarandon is so lefty, her eyes are slowly travelling to one side of her head, like a halibut."

And...we're full-circle with the fish.

Hey, I Heard That At Church!

As promised, I have been watching the Olympics with a fervor and curiousity that has only increased throughout the week. It's so much like life, it's amazing. Bode Miller, who went in favored to win a gaggle of medals, has won nothing except the disappointment and dismissal of all sports writers (yes, I read the sports commentary, too). Lindsey Jacobellis, ahead of the everyone at the end of the snowboard cross, did a fancy trick and fell on her ass, losing to the slow-and-steady rider who zoomed past her when she fell. I ask you -- who of us hasn't had these types of disappointments, dismissals, and falls on our respective asses when it comes to grades, jobs, or relationships?

That aside, I've noticed something curious as I watch the medal cerermonies. Let me start by saying that I have been a Presbyterian most of my life. That probably doesn't mean much to most people and it barely means something to churchy-types. My reasons for being a Presbyterian are myriad and complex, and have changed over time, but pretty much boil down to the fact that Presbyterians are, by and large, good people. (Except when you get a few of them started on Diet Coke - beware. Just trust me on this one.) They started a little rebelliously (John Knox, that minx!), raised a little good natured Protestant hoo-ha, and then, became a church and, as I learned last week, a delicious cocktail.

Being a Presbyterian means that my life has been spent singing hymns with an organ. I will probably classify myself as the oldest-27-year-old-alive by saying this, but I rather like the organ. I like singing with it. I like the way it looks with all those funky pipes peeking out of the walls. I like how it almost disguises some of the horrible, off-key singers around me. And I like hymns. I really do. Some of them are actually funny, and make many of us laugh, like the one with a chorus that goes, "One was a doctor, one was a queen..." And written by a woman named Lesbia. Seriously. You can't make this stuff up.

So imagine my surprise, when watching Germany take home yet another gold medal, their national anthem started playing and I could sing along with it! Granted, I can't tell you the name of the hymn, but still, the fact remains -- recognition occured. It's so hard to feel like one is up on anything these days, so recognition, when it happens, is wonderfully suprising. It makes one feel like part of the human race again. This is what a life of hymn singing can do for a person. Allow you key access into things like national anthem singing and the human race -- if you can keep from laughing.

Go Speed Racer

Russ and I were just joking about what would happen if I became an Olympic Slalom skier because I got rejected for a job I applied for and commented that maybe I should just chuck it all and become a skier:

Russ (playing me): "How do I get up this hill again?" and "What are these boards on my feet?"

Me (playing me, crying): "Olympic Judges, help me, I can't get up" and "I'm just here because I can't get a job in L.A. with my English degree."

Tanya is the Master P of Puppy Training

Unlike most people who enjoy their weekends, Russ and I decided to go for broke and enroll Tanya into Petsmart's Puppy Training class. The going for broke part refers to the fact that we have given up any semblance of having fun weekends at this point in our respective academic careers. We're so dreadfully boring that we try not to subject our friends to our presence, unless they beg. Granted, we have some very kind friends who do beg once in a while.

So, for the next seven weeks, we will be at Petsmart on Saturday nights, teaching Tanya how to sit, lay down, leave it, and most importantly, not act like a raging bitch every time she's in the presence of another dog or human male. I'm still not sure what one word we're going to attach to that command -- Russ has suggested, "Tranquilo," but I'm arguing that it's too many syllables (though appropriate for a Chihuahua). We did the whole class thing with our Lab once upon a time and it was great -- cool people, fun dogs like a Boston Terrier named Mr. Tea, and a great instructor with good stories and a punky purple streak in her hair. But that was then...and this is now. This class is the longest hour of my life. The people are boring. I guess that's what you get on a Saturday night. The instructor looks like Dana Carvey's Church Lady with a bad perm. Even Tanya seems bored. She'd rather be at home, laying on a gigantic pillow and curled in a ball, and I can't say I really blame her. I was so bored this past week, I went to the bathroom just to leave the circle -- a move I haven't executed so deliberately since my boring US history class in high school.

If Tanya is going to improve, it's not going to be in this class. Just like, if Master P improves, it's not going to be in ballroom dancing. Some things just aren't meant to be.

Eww, That's Gross

Let me tell you a story about hair loss...

As a twelve-year old, my grandpa got a book of Gary Larson cartoons. There was this one that I remember scratching my head about, one that showed a dog scrutinizing himself in a mirror, looking worried, while the caption said something like, "When young dogs experience premature mange." After looking through dictionaries and encyclopedias, which were not helpful (where was the Internet when you needed it?), I had to make my own assumptions, so I just assumed that dogs lost their hair, just like some humans, at some point in their doggy existence.

Later on in life, I learned that premature mange is the canine version of lice. They get in the fur/hair and sit there and make a dog scratch and scratch and scratch. Unlike lice, though, whose only lasting effects are the smelly scalp and the social ostracism back at school, mange causes the fur/hair to fall out. So if you had, say, a Chihuahua with mange, you might begin to find large patches of fur on every surface of the house.

Okay, I admit it, that last sentence is about me. Tanya has mange. We noticed this nasty looking rash on her shoulder about two weeks ago, where her hair had begun to fall out. We thought it was where she'd gotten some shots and maybe had the anesthesia when she had her teeth cleaned. We laughed about mange, but it didn't occur to us that our dog might have it.

But as I was doing a little much needed cleaning yesterday, I started finding these large crop-circles of Tanya hair. On the couch. On the floor. On my pillow. Yuck. I mentioned it to Russ and he started picking through her fur, like a chimp looking for nits, and he groaned. "Oh man," he said. "There's a bald spot on her butt now." That's when we knew it was time to call in the experts, our vets at Banfield who excel at pet whispering. And sure enough, one skin scrape later, she officially has mange. What it really means is that means she'll have four very expensive baths tomorrow.

Luckily for us, it's the kind of mange that's dog specific. They're also the lazy kind of mange, which means that they don't hop, they lounge. That means we don't have to burn all cloth exteriors of our house. So that's fortunate. But it's a good thing I decoded that Gary Larson cartoon all those years ago -- if I hadn't, I might've just thought that Tanya was naturally losing her hair, like all good dogs eventually do.

Mmm, That's Good

Yes, I'm talking about the dinner I made last night. Other than the smoky lounge-like atmosphere that resulted from my adventures in cooking, the short ribs were surprising edible. Russ proclaimed them "the best you've ever made," which is not saying much. Christina contributed to the dinner (unintentionally) by stopping by for a quick hello and bringing with her the best chocolate and cherry cookies Russ or I have ever had. Since she offered, I took four (and two more for me -- don't tell Russell) and that turned out to be our dessert. Perfect-o.

I must brag just a teeny bit about my wine choices. I went to Cost Plus, which is my favorite place to shop for wine, because they have a great selection and it's laid out very well. Their prices are also excellent. But it's not as overwhelming as, say BevMo. Because we were having short ribs with a maple-rosemary glaze, I figured that we needed a really heavy red wine, which had me browsing the Zinfindels and Cabernets. I ended up with one of my favorite Zins ever, an old vine Zin from Bogle. It's so juicy, with a hint of vanilla, that it was the perfect compliment. And it's a very reasonable price for such a good bottle of wine, at $8.99.

I took a chance on a second bottle of wine and it was only because we were so darn curious about it that we opened it at all last night. We just had to taste a wine called Wrongo Dongo. The back label is covered with silly blurbs like "You can't go wrongo" and "Dongo to a party without this wine," and yet it's a Spanish wine. Christina surmised that the label had to be written by an English speaker and I agree. I can't imagine any self-respecting Spanaird breaking out with such stupid puns. Puns aside, though, the description of the wine was what sold me, assuring me that it was heavy enough to go with red meats, but fruity enough for less intense dishes. I didn't believe them, but since it was a very reasonable $7.99, I thought, hey, why not? Worst case scenario, we give it to Tanya before she goes in for "treatment." Just kidding, PETA.

Anyway, from the small taste Russ and I had, we loved this wine. It was just what the label said it would be, heavily fruity yet without the spiciness that would've made it too big for a meat other than beef. So there are two freebies for all you wine connoisseurs out there.

Future plans, you ask? Jon has bravely offered to try my cooking...at least, he thinks. So Jon, anytime you and Lisa are ready, come on over to Chateau Le Sarah.

T-Minus Five Hours To Go

Russ and I don't really do Valentine's Day. I hate all that artificial hoo-ha. I'm definitely one of those people who believe that flowers (not roses) and chocolate (dark, not milk) and schmoopy looks (oh yeah) are a 7-24-365 requirement. I don't buy lovey cards or heart-shaped stuff or wear red or pink or even white, unless by wearing pink or red or white, I am commentating satirically on the holiday. Which I rarely do for fear of looking as though I am partcipating.

But in a gesture of love and affection and a willingness to risk burning the house down, I offered to make Russ dinner tonight. You must understand that Russ is the cook in our house, and an excellent one at that, whipping up concoctions that sparkle in the mouth. I, on the other hand, have a non-sparkling history when it comes to using the oven/stove. I've been known to put tuperware in the oven or bake cookies without a cookie sheet. All very messy. I don't know what's wrong with me, when it comes to cooking. I've had many friends give me diagnoses and the one I keep coming back to is that I'm a combination of non-tactile and unwilling to pay attention to the details. It would be like if Martha Stewart cut off her hands and developed an obsession with American Idol. That's me.

It's fair to say I'm a bit nervous. Last year, I made him dinner, but it was after a teaching session/practice run with the fabulous Ms. Christina Wenger, a.k.a. woman-who-could-bam-Emeril-to-oblivion-with-her-cooking. (Yes, she's really that good.) But there has been no practice session this year and I am blindly going where very few Wallin women have gone before -- the land of braised short ribs that require about an hour of intense preparation. This all goes down in about five hours. Pray for chewable meat.

The Next Two Weeks of My Life, a.k.a. Why You Will Find Me Sitting on My Ass In Front of the TV Nonstop for Said Amount of Time

My Fellow Americans,

It is finally February, and yes, that means it's finally time for the winter Olympics in Torino, Italy. Skiing and skating and curling, oh my. This is something I've been waiting for since Christmas. I love all things Olympics, even the cheesy commercials about being a champion, and watching it from the warm, English-based comfort of my living room only sweetens the deal. My goal - unmet - was to have sports cable by this Olympics so I could watch it at all times (even hockey) and live vicariously the athletic goal to which I have never aspired.

The winter Olympics are even more fascinating to me than the summer Olympics because they all take place in snow, an athletic medium for which I have no talent. I have only publicly cried twice in life -- once, it was because the Pasadena Kinkos employees were horribly mean to me and the other time, it was because I'd been sitting on a hill in the mountains of Taos, NM for over five minutes, and still couldn't figure out how to get up. People assume that because I grew up in Illinois, a.k.a. land-of-miserable-winters-where-it-snows-until-June, I'm well-versed in all the finer points of winter sports. But Illinois is no place for winter events, unless the IOC were to introduce an event called "Windshield Scraping."

Russ laughs at me because my only skiing experience (before Taos) was in Wisconsin. The bunny slope was nothing more than the incline of my street. But it still took me all day to get down without crumpling into an embarassing heap. He grew up in California, Utah, and Colorado respectively, so let him laugh. I never put anti-freeze in the windshield wiper fluid container. Take that, mountaineer.

But, this is not about Russ. For once, this is about the Olympics and the fact that the next two weeks are all about them. The scandals -- ah, the scandals. Already, Michelle Kwan has dropped out and there's a guy who's been disqualified for using Rogaine. Skating is a good bet for controversey. So is Bode Miller. But don't rule out short track speed skating. The Koreans are buff and have been nursing their vendetta against Apolo Anton Ohno for the last four years.

In any case, I will be dedicating my time and energy to watching the somewhat-spotty coverage of trendy events on NBC. While I'm peeved that NBC will still be carrying such programs as Extreme Teenage Room Swap, I will use these gaps in coverage in order to get my work done. Plus, Bob Costas is hilarious.

Go Team U.S.A.!
Suprisingly Patriotically Yours,
Sarah

Trader Joe's Slut

I admit it. So does Russell. We cannot stay away from ours for more than a day or two.

Exhibit A: Crusing down the vegetable/prepared food/chips/cheese aisle, I saw Tiffany stocking lettuce. Tiffany is quite possibly the nicest person in the world. She always shrieks, "Hey girl!" and tonight, she gave me a side-hug. I ask you -- how many people side-hug their grocery store employees? I can't see myself ever siding it with the tired, grumpy looking people who work at the local Vons. They seem determinedly anti-hug.

Exhibit B: Here are their names and/or personality descriptions: Tiffany, Justin, April, the woman who usually runs the try-it-now bar who also owns her own catering business, Jason, Mike (see below), Laura, the woman with funky glasses who just had a baby and who I chatted with at the post office the other day, Sarah (punky lip ring), Chad 2 (the guy who is the evil twin of my friend Chad), Deanna, the woman with the dark, thick hair on her arms who is very, very nice...need I go on?

Exhibit C: They all know what Russ and I are doing on the weekends and that we're addicted to the chocolate toffee almonds.

Exhibit D: Unlike all other alcohol distributers, they know that although I may look like a college freshman, I'm actually a teacher of college freshman and thus, they no longer ask for my I.D. Ahh. One less card I have to pull out.

Exhibit E: Tonight, when I was leaving, Mike, a tall, skater-sort of guy, held up a finger that indicated I should wait a moment. Mike is a cool guy, really funny. As soon as he finished with his customer, he said, "Check it out." He then rolled up his shorts to his mid-thigh and showed me the continuation of his tattoo whose progress Russ and I have both been monitoring. It starts at his foot, then moved past his ankle to his knee, and now, it's up to his mid-thigh. Imagine what he'll show me next.

And you thought I was being ironic with the whole slut thing.

Fetch, Fido, Fectch

Things we've discovered about Tanya this last week:

1. She's excellent at playing catch. She'll play until she drops.
2. Like Russell and I, not really that fond of kids.
3. If she's playing catch and can't find the ball, she stands and walks on her hind legs, looking up in the air (as if the ball didn't come down to earth).
4. She likes avocados.
5. She likes to meet other people backwards. As in, being passed to them butt-first. Then, the licking...the incessant licking.

Now then, some other matters of contemplation:

I heard Bush referred to today as "Captain Cuckoo Bananas." I love that.

I've been listening to some really great music lately, mostly Alison Krauss and Sufjan Stevens. It's fun to listen to Sufjan in the car with the windows down. People on the sidwalks look at you funny when they hear his intensely dramatic flute runs.

Why are things such as Britney Spears holding her baby while driving and James Frey still at the forefront of news? As for Britney, okay, yes, not exactly great to hold a baby in your lap while driving, but I remember when my four-year old sister would hang out the window - to her waist - of our Oldsmobile. I also remember being told that if I kept putting my arm out the window, it would get chopped off by a semi truck. So maybe I'm just auto-desensitized. And James -- the guy got fired. So he's obviously had better days. He'll be a fiction writer from now on, he promises.

Fante's The Road to Los Angeles = sort of weird. Fante's Wait Until Spring, Bandini = wonderful and funny and sad. As Dr. Coop said, we should all read Ask the Dust before the movie comes out in March and Colin Farrell forever taints Bandini.

Smoke Gets In Your Lungs

As the hills of Orange County are burning away, I am happily clear and blue-skied up along the San Gabriel Mountains. It's fire season in California once again.

Though sometimes I would feel no remorse about Orange County burning to the ground, I do feel a certain solidarity with the Orangeos in this case. I think as southern Californians, we all understand the power of fire and how it could burn this mother down in two breezy days. Two years ago, the hills in Azusa (a few freeway exits east) were burning and the buzz on the streets of Monrovia was all about evacuation. Would we have to flee to the overpriced hotels of Pasadena? Luckily, Monrovians were spared the torture of leaving behind their beloved Coldstone and Krikorian Theater. All we got was a blanket of smoke that hung over the town for at least a week. The smoke turned the sky a color I can only describe as "apocolyptic gray." The shape was sort of reminiscent of the cloud-finger of God parting the Red Sea in The Ten Commandments.

The most amazing part was the cinders free-floating around us at all times. We found cinders in our bed sheets and caked on the window panes. The Blaxima (my black Maxima)'s hood had a white-flaked coating, as did the geraniums in our garden. A walk to get the mail required a face wash or a clothing change.

It's the closest we get to snow in California, these cinders clinging to your nose. Next thing you know, there will be "cinder fights" and "cinder-men."

Los Angeles, Sad Flower in the Sand

Kristan had the awesome idea today, after I mentioned that Sandow Birk's Inferno wasn't "L.A. enough," that we need to form an official "Los Angeles Appreciation Club." By people who love L.A. - and its quirky this-is-not-New-York-ness - for people who love L.A.

Any joiners?

In other L.A. news, Russ and I joined Christina and Emilio in partying down on the Queen Mary last Saturday night.

We celebrated the marriage of Christina's friend Kate, who because of her work with social justice in L.A., Russ has dubbed "the people's Kate."

Russ and my gift to the people's Kate and her husband, Alexander, who is a Cuban transplant in L.A., were communist revolution hats. Viva Cuba and la revolucion and el amor!

Emilio "the eye" C-G took some beautiful, breath-taking photos of the Queen Mary.

I took some beautiful, breath-taking photos of my face smooshed against the table.

Upon closer review, definitely not in the same league as Emilio's.

Russ and I tried to salsa. Never try to compete with a Cubano and Cubana-by-marriage.

When Christina and I were dancing to Michael Jackson, this old, old man approached us. He'd been dancing with his caretaker, but I'd seen him eyeing Christina and I shaking it. He was hard to hear, but we finally understood that he wanted to dance. Christina kindly offered him her hands and I thought the man was going to pass out from sheer ecstasy.

As they were dancing, he whispered (something along the lines of), "If I had a hotel room tonight, I'd invite you over."

Figgerit Madness

Russ and I, lying in bed last night, me doing Figgerit puzzles, which are sort of a mix of cryptograms and crosswords:

"What's an eight letter word for 'pirate of sorts'?"

"Hmm. Buccaneer?"

"How do you spell Buccaneer?"

"B-U-C-K-A--"

"It isn't spelled like BUCK AN EAR, you know."

"I know. I just like that joke."

"The one about how much it costs pirates to pierce their ears?"

"ARRRGH -- a buck an ear!"

The Problem with being Augustus Gloop

On the aforementioned Dante's hell quiz, one level of hell that I had a moderately high score on was level three, the level of the glutton. I think it's because I wrote that I eat out several times a week. I hope God takes into account that some of us just can't cook, no matter how hard we aspire. And that pizza tastes damn good sometimes.

Tanya might be there along with me. My own personal hell hound. We got her a new toy, a package of three mini tennis balls. She loves them. She loves them so much, in fact, that she refuses to drop them once they're in her mouth. So we have to use two at a time when we want to play ball with her. But now, she's become a greedy girl. Russ and I laugh and laugh watching her trying to fit those two balls in her little mouth at once. Just when she's walking away with one, she remembers the other one and grabs it, in the process dropping the other one. It's like a little Charlie Chaplin act. We can almost see her scratching her head trying to figure it out.